


Here With Me: A Three-Part Interlude

by beetle



Series: The Culladaar Romance Series No One Asked For (But You’re Getting It Anyway): [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AU in that Cullen is Bisexual, AU in that Jethann didn't disappear from Kirkwall until Act III, Adaar (Dragon Age) Backstory, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Romance, Banter, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Cullen Smut, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Dominant Adaar, Dominant Bottom, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, Kinky Cullen Rutherford, Light Angst, M/M, Male Adaar Mage, Marking, Minor Alistair/Female Warden, Office Blow Jobs, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, POV Cullen Rutherford, Physical Restraint for Sexual Purposes, Power Bottom Adaar, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, Power Play, Purple AF, Purple Hawke, Service Submission, Service Top, Some of it rubbed-off on Carver, Sub Cullen, Sweet Cullen Rutherford, Top Cullen Rutherford
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 09:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18990061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: “And I won't go/ I won't sleep/ And I can't breathe/ Until you're resting here with me.”OR: Three scenes from their first times together. Sex and angst. Sangst. And romance and humor, because . . . THESE TWO.Chapter One Summary:In which Cullen is horny, and yet,stillbrooding; Kaaras is determined and certainly doesn’t brake for nostalgic melancholy; and bothmovesandskillzget made and discovered.





	Here With Me: A Three-Part Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Mostly sex and angst, and memories of sex and angst. Also, banter, romance, and happiness. Warm-fuzzies, even. SPOILERS for DAO and DAII, as well as DAI. Title from the Dido song. The subtitle is merely my statement of intentions. AU, in that Cullen is bisexual and Jethann didn't disappear from Kirkwall until near the end of DAII: Act III.
> 
> Kaaras Adaar:
> 
>  
> 
> This pic’s also in the [series notes](https://archiveofourown.org/series/931887), along with the series particulars :-)

**_“_ ** **_All the things that they make you say/ And all the love that you hide away/ I'll pick you up and it’ll be all right/ I'll pick you up and it’ll be tonight. . . .”_ **

 

* * *

 

**1\. Throwing Copper**

 

Less than three full days— _busy ones_ , though . . . each and every two-and-three-fifths of them—had passed since his rather public assignation on the battlements with Kaaras Adaar.

 

Less than three, Maker-blessed days, before Cullen Rutherford couldn’t concentrate whatsoever. Not for love or money—couldn’t bloody _take it_ , anymore. Couldn’t take the distracting memories of how Kaaras had _felt in his arms_ . . . strong and powerful yet _so vulnerable_ . . . warm and solid and _shaking_ , as his release seemed to unmake him.

 

As if the only thing that had kept him from flying apart had been Cullen’s body pinning his own to the stone ledge. Most notably, Cullen’s sharply pistoning hips and the increasingly clamp-like bite of his fingers into Kaaras’s biceps as he, too, had sought a release that threatened to unmake the entire bloody _castle_.

 

And it very nearly _had_ unmade Cullen, at least. Even aside from the electrifying, escalating pleasure that’d scorched its way through his veins and limbs, and from his agonized balls and prick—trapped as they were in his trousers and against Kaaras’s cloth-shielded thigh. The sensory overload that had been Kaaras Adaar in those moments: his summer and green and embriums scent, merging dizzyingly with his spicy-sharp-clean _taste_ . . . like autumn and apples and very faintly _tears_ . . . the heady, impossible reality of _Kaaras Adaar’s body_ gliding smooth and firm and acquiescent against _Cullen’s_ body and under his feverish, greedy, desperate hands. . . .

 

At the moment of climax, Kaaras had felt and tasted and smelt of all those wonderful things, but also of the air after a lightning strike. Of lightning, itself—wild, focused, and devastating by its mere and miraculous existence.

 

Kaaras Adaar had been magic. Pure, wild, beautiful, dangerous, and still . . . so very, very sweet. And Cullen’s overloaded senses had been as nothing to his overloaded heart, taken by love, awe, and joy. By _relief_ that this beautiful, surely Maker-sent miracle had not only _chosen_ him and was continuing to do so, but had done so with his sense of fondness and affection intact. Despite Cullen’s many thorns and flaws and . . . idiosyncrasies.

 

Cullen had also been taken by _gratitude_ that this beautiful, _surely Maker-sent miracle_ had been made and meant for him to have and hold and protect for as long as there was life in him.

 

And even beyond that, Maker-willing.

 

Every shudder-quake of Kaaras’s body against his own and the breathless-soft hitches as his climax had tapered to a dramatic end—an end that’d left Kaaras gasping and moaning and clutching at Cullen as if for dear life—had rocked Cullen to his already shaken and leveled core. Had driven his hips to thrusts that had bordered on brutal and his mouth to seek out Kaaras’s for reclaiming—for taking all that Kaaras’d had left to give in the wake of their assignation . . . even if all there was were pained, needy whimpers and stuttered, panting breaths.

 

Cullen wanted _all_ of Kaaras Adaar there was and had ever been. And all there ever _would be_.

 

“Oh, I wish,” Kaaras had finally whisper-moaned in Cullen’s ear, bending awkwardly to do so, then nibbling at the lobe and sucking on it _hard_. “I wish we were in your bed, Cullen. That you had me bent in half, with my knees up by my bloody horns, while you gave me _everything_. Everything I’ve been wanting for so long . . . your arms and your kisses, your body on mine and in mine. Your fingers stretching me so your cock can claim me: hard and fast . . . then sweet and soft. Over and over and over, marking me indelibly— _irrevocably_ , every time you came in me. Every time _I came around you, impaling myself and convulsing around your cock_ , and holding you tight inside, as if I meant to _never_ let you go. And I _wouldn’t_. I _won’t_. I’ll keep you _forever_ , Cullen Rutherford. You’re _mine_ , at last . . . now, come in me.”

 

And with an unexpected, uncontrolled roar—one that had _not_ gone unheard by Skyhold and environs . . . far from it—Cullen’s final thrusts had been shoves that’d pinned Kaaras after knocking the breath from him. Then Cullen had growled the last of his roar into Kaaras’s shoulder as he spent himself in his smalls . . . like some inexperienced boy who was _one-third_ Cullen’s age!

 

Nevertheless, the spell of celibacy that had dogged Cullen since Kirkwall—like so many other things he _hadn’t_ necessarily wanted to endure, but had soldiered-on through, anyway—had been ushered out with explosive fanfare.

 

And now, even Cullen’s most intensely carnal feelings, thoughts, dreams, and musings about Kaaras in the not-even-seventy-two-hours since—and in every idle and many un-idle moments—felt _hallowed_ , somehow. The memory of Kaaras’s candid, semi-dirty nothings had eclipsed the _Chant of Light_ as the most life-affirming, reassuring, lovely thing Cullen had ever heard. The almost violent pulse of Kaaras’s prick as he’d come, grinding against Cullen’s stomach, had eclipsed the mostly-steady beat of Cullen’s own heart as the most necessary, life-affirming rhythm.

 

Rubbing off with Kaaras Adaar, in public, whilst fully clothed and upright, had relegated his every past assignation and indiscretion—every one of them _post_ -Kinloch, and the vast majority of them since the beginning of his tenure in Kirkwall—of negligible import. And, truly, _very_ many of them _had been_ nothing more than desperation-necessitated business transactions. Cullen had never been a man of precipitous libido. On the occasions an itch had presented itself, he’d certainly _scratched it_ with intense abandon, but only to assuage the itch and keep it silent thereater for as long as possible. Basically, until his right hand just didn’t get the job done in an even marginally satisfying way.

 

Then it’d been off to _The Blooming Rose_ , and his preferred professional of the evening: Corinne, an elf from Kirkwall’s alienage. One who’d begun to look _increasingly_ like Cullen’s former charge at Kinloch.

 

Like his rescuer and savior.

 

Like _Ferelden’s Hero_ , and its grown-legendary Grey Warden-Commander, Neria Surana.

 

 _Like Her Majesty . . . the beloved wife of King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden—and beloved, also, of_ Ferelden’s people— _Queen Neria Theirin._

 

With the passage of time and the increase of Cullen’s loneliness, Corinne’d had become more torture than titillation. Her similarly lithe, delicate build and near-ethereal grace, plus those shadow-dark curls and mischievous eyes had become the most beautiful waking-nightmare Cullen had ever lived, and he’d lived _many_ , even at that point. And when Cullen had felt like tormenting himself with what could never have been, he’d sought Corinne’s company as one compelled.

 

But as time went on, his softer repining had turned to ash and rue over even his dearest, most horded memories. Over his disillusionment not that the impish, but kind-hearted, earnest, and _courageous_ mage-apprentice—with whom young Knight-Corporal Cullen Rutherford had been so desperately in love—had changed or become unrecognizable, even as she’d grown into her more famous and occasionally fearsome facets. No, those memories had become poison because of the realization that all he’d ever dreamed regarding an undoubtedly great hero who would, nonetheless, always be remembered by _Cullen’s heart_ as the sweetest, cleverest, most _winsome_ girl Cullen would ever know . . . that heart and those dreams had never stood a chance. Not even one.

 

It hadn’t been much longer before he’d turned to one of Corinne’s peers at the _Rose_. And it’d made sense, for a while. There’d been nothing at all sweet or winsome about _this elf_ , called Jethann—no reminders of the young woman of whom Cullen had become so enamored during his time at Kinloch Hold. And there’d _certainly_ been no reminders of that young woman’s current iteration: the kind, widely-loved queen, national Hero, and Warden-Commander of Cullen’s homeland.

 

No, Jethann had been rather tall and rangy and laconic, unlike Neria’s deceptively delicate curves and youthful sprightliness. Jethann’s laughing-sardonic-jaded voice had been lower than even _Cullen’s_ , dryly matter of fact, and resonant. His shiny, ginger hair and direct, tomcat-green stare had reminded Cullen of no one, at all, in the beginning. And that had been a relief.

 

But, in time, Cullen had noticed that particularly _elven_ grace and spare elegance that’d seemed to be endemic to elven-kind. And that piercing stare, though greener than a handful of firelit emeralds—not Neria Surana’s dove-dark or even Corinne’s milder mink-brown—had cut through the layers of numbness Cullen had wrapped ‘round himself for nearly a _decade_ , at that point. Since the first hellish months of recovering from Kinloch.

 

And so, he’d eventually found himself, as he had with Corinne, fighting the urge to kiss Jethann during and after their transactions had been completed. It’d been all he could do to stop himself, though Jethann’s wry, knowing smiles and playful, old soul-eyes had said he’d been able to read Cullen’s frustrations easily.

 

“You know, if you really want to, Knight-Captain . . . I wouldn’t mind. Hell, I _might_ actually like it,” Jethann had purred one evening, waggling his eyebrows encouragingly while Cullen—still a sweaty, dead-weight half-on top of him and trying to catch some very elusive breaths—had stared intently at his mouth. Jethann’s lips were thin, but still wicked and tempting. Parted just enough to show glimpses of slightly pointy, slightly crooked, but very white teeth.

 

Still panting—Jethann had certainly known how to put a man through his paces and had earned every silver of his fee—Cullen had met that emerald-direct stare for a moment, then pulled carefully out of and rolled quickly off the durable-flexible elf. After a minute to collect himself, he’d sat up slowly, in deference to his winded and somewhat achy state, and swung his feet to the cold wood floor. His back, shoulders, and arms had stung from Jethann’s flatteringly enthusiastic scratches, gouges, and welts.

 

“That’s . . . very kind of you,” Cullen had mumble-huffed, stiff and formal—only to start when Jethann’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and the other man’s wiry body pressed against his back.

 

“If you want, Knight-Captain. Only if you want,” he’d murmured reassuringly— _understandingly_ , somehow—on Cullen’s left shoulder, half-kiss, itself. Cullen had stiffened further, made a strange whimper-groan as he’d started to relax . . . then stiffened again, pulling away.

 

“I want many things,” Cullen had admitted grimly, then pulled out of Jethann’s kind, but not keeping embrace, and gathered up his uniform and armor.

 

There’d never been further talk between them of kisses, after that. And anyway, less than a year on, Jethann had disappeared from the _Rose_ , and from Kirkwall altogether, as far as Cullen had been able to tell. His duties had allowed, along with the increasing chaos of a Kirkwall gone mad under Knight-Commander Meredith’s thumb, a very sparing investigation into the disappearance, at best.

 

Cullen had never seen or heard anything of Jethann up to the point he’d had to put aside his growing-grimmer search, to help keep Kirkwall from sinking entirely. He’d even been meaning to call-in a few favors owed him by the Champion—not that Cullen, himself, and Kirkwall and Southern-bloody-Thedas didn’t already owe Marian Hawke their lives—to get her assistance in locating Jethann . . . or Jethann’s fate and remains. But things in Kirkwall had gone south so quickly before he could, that by the time the dust had begun to settle, the Champion of Kirkwall and her wife (another dark-haired, strangely enchanting elven mage, like the Hero of Ferelden, as well as a lifelong apostate, just like the Champion . . . plus daft and Dalish, to boot), and their immediate circle had absconded in different directions.

 

And considering that Knight-Corporal Carver Hawke, hadn’t divulged—to his _and_ Cullen’s superiors in the Order and the Chantry—where the Champion had gone, or had convinced them he hadn’t known at all, Cullen hadn’t bothered to go digging in that direction. Especially considering that the Knight-Corporal had clearly inherited his own fair share of the Hawke-charm, charisma, and facility with manipulation, and thus had ended up _promoted to Knight-Lieutenant, with honors,_ after the dust-settling. Rather than dishonorably discharged and excommunicated simply for sharing a last name and blood with the Champion, never mind anything else.

 

The Knight-Lieutenant and his infamous older sister had _never_ been on the best terms, according to them both, but either blood-loyalty had held fantastically, or it had broken completely and Carver Hawke genuinely _hadn’t_ known where his sister had gone. Whichever, Cullen had known he’d never get anything useful about her from his now-direct subordinate. From another smart-arsed, bloody _Hawke_.

 

He’d _also_ known that requesting even a brief Leave himself—and _none_ were being granted for anything less than the mortal illness of the Templar seeking Leave or of their spouse—to search for the one person who could doubtlessly find and possibly save Jethann, would net him nothing. No Champion, and certainly no Jethann.

 

In the time since the Knight-Commander’s horrific comeuppance and death, and his own break with the Templars—since being recruited by Cassandra Pentaghast to lead the Inquisition’s army, _Commander Cullen Rutherford_ hadn’t had much time or chance to reminisce or dig up old, raveled loose-ends. He could only hope that Jethann had, whatever else, landed on his feet and prospered in whatever he did.

 

Within weeks of his recruitment, Cullen hadn’t even had time for that—nor time to spare much thought for Jethann. Nor had he the time to sound-out or engage in sexual congress—whether fueled by affection, convenience, or desperation and sovereigns—since his final visit to the _Blooming Rose_ , mere hours after signing on with the Inquisition.

 

And in the eighteen-plus months since that evening, Cullen had either been too busy working to muster, manage, and make an army out of the thousands who’d flocked to the cause . . . or too busy pining for only the second person he’d ever fallen in love with, and yet another who’d been, by nature and achievement, of too great a station to ever be winnable, or even wooable.

 

Then, after nearly that entire eighteen months—perhaps since before _the Prisoner_ had stabilized the Breach, taken-down the Pride Demon, and been dubbed the _Herald of Andraste_ . . . perhaps since the brief, tense moments of their initial meeting—spent pining, Cullen had somehow gotten handed everything he could have ever wanted and then some.

 

He’d been handed the Maker’s Own Champion. Sent to redeem and reshape Thedas, and so far, proving to be a thankfully _far less_ annoying and chirpy/smart-alecky one than Kirkwall’s Champion. Like the most precious of boons and miracles, Kaaras Adaar hadn’t fallen into Cullen’s lap, nor had anyone placed him there, really. But he’d happily, _firmly_ , peremptorily placed _himself_ there. And at this point, none of Cullen’s whingeing or guff was going to drive him away, that was clear.

 

And Cullen, for one, couldn’t have been more over-the-moon about that.

 

So, when Andraste’s Herald and the Maker’s Holy Champion—when _the Inquisitor_ , entered Cullen’s office without knocking less than seventy-two hours after their intense assignation, then shut the door and leant against it, smirking and determined, _sultry-vibrant_ and . . . _breathtaking_ , Cullen beamed. And he did not hesitate to wind-down the intertwined persons and places of his recent and not-so-recent past. He didn’t and _hadn’t_ brooded over them in some time. Certainly, not once in the past two and a half days. And, even with the past so near, he looked upon it with surprising pangs of complex, yet genuine fondness. But brief ones. There, the fondness ended, passing and trailing into amorphous poignance that was all about paths-best-not-taken and providentially hypothetical what-ifs.

 

Here and now, Cullen had something better than memories of suspect poignance and bitter sweetness. He had _Kaaras Adaar_ : A stunning, leggy-awkward-elegant, ginger giant. Clad not in his usual snow-white Herald-wear, but in midnight-dark tunic and matching trousers of spring-weight wool. His direct, hazel-gold eyes seemed to glow as he held Cullen’s gaze, and his boyish-angular face—with its vivid spray of freckles—seemed to be lit from within, as well. His mouth was curved in a wickedly anticipatory smirk that drew Cullen’s admiring gaze to full, lavender-rose lips and glimpses of perfect, white teeth.

 

Framing his face so very attractively, and falling unbound over his shoulders and down his back, was that pin-straight, ginger-gold hair that tempted Cullen’s hands _powerfully_ —beckoned, with the siren-lures of silken heaviness and the tensile-strength that made for fantastic gripping and tugging and directing. . . .

 

The same could be said of those back-curling, prominent, slate-colored horns. Well . . . they were slate-colored, where they _weren’t_ adorned with bright, thick copper plating. And they immediately curled back ’round, again, and terminated in points mere inches away from the spots at each temple, from which they had grown.

 

They, too, were striking and . . . beautiful. Though, the warm-bright glow of that copper plating _slightly_ out-shined Kaaras’s hair in this lighting, it certainly didn’t come close to outshining his eyes or smile, and never could.

 

“Hullo, Kaaras,” Cullen said, standing without realizing he was, and skirting his desk with eagerness and relief. Kaaras’s smirk widened and he stepped away from Cullen’s office door enough to engage the lock, then approached Cullen with even more determination. His usual leggy-awkward-elegant stride became a graceful, near-dangerous stalk.

 

Though, now that he’d seen this stalk, Cullen realized that—while said stalk was more typically Qunari-martial than Kaaras tended to be by a long-shot—Kaaras’s _usual_ gait and movements were effortlessly accommodating and of limited impact. He moved with a grace and economy that was part of his deep consideration of everything and everyone in his sphere, but . . . it was _something else_ , too. Instinctual and lyrical in a way that would certainly lend itself to stealth, should Kaaras choose to train it to that end.

 

For one there-then-gone moment he wouldn’t remember or come back to for some months, Cullen mused that the way Kaaras moved was almost like the elves at the alienage in Kirkwall had seemed to . . . only lacking the near-mincing wariness and fear those elves wore as their only means of defense against the often violent humans surrounding them.

 

Kaaras moved like that, only . . . fearless and proud and capable. He _moved_ like the few _Dalish_ elves Cullen had seen up-close in his travels: grace, like the deceptively soft flutter of silk . . . and the dangerous precision of a drawn blade. Like something ancient and wild, and so indecipherable and unknowable as to seem chaotic to the untutored eye.

 

 _Kaaras Adaar moved_ as if he sought only to occupy the space he needed and sought to leave the spaces where he’d been no worse for wear. And all with the sort of applied care and deliberation few could match, were they not born to it or submerged in it for a lifetime. He moved . . . _and he sometimes spoke_ like the Dalish. . . .

 

 _Exactly_ like them.

 

Sometimes . . . _Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar_ reminded Cullen of the Champion of Kirkwall’s apostate wife.

 

 _Merrill . . . Something-or-other-unpronounceable_ , Cullen recalled of the young woman. Kaaras—when he let his assumed, Free Marches-accent slip—sounded quite like her, almost down to the exact thickness of that accent, and the dreamy-guileless, up-lilting, sing-song inflection. But that, only enough to finally be noticed for the first time while he’d been dosed on painkillers for his bruised lungs. Since then, however, not only had Cullen begun to seek it out like a mabari on the scent, but Kaaras had quite frequently _purposely_ let it slip, when he and Cullen were alone.

 

Yet even heard only in brief snippets, and even when it was fiercely tamed and hidden by that rounded, Southern Marches-drawl . . . the tells were still there, tiny and unmistakable. Flavoring the depth and slight roll of Kaaras’s R’s and the up-curling ends of certain words. And never more obvious than when the young Inquisitor was either incredulous or amused . . . or extremely relaxed and . . . sated. The inflection, if not the broader hints of that unique accent and way of speaking, had their ways of making themselves heard in Kaaras Adaar’s low, warm tenor.

 

Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar, when he wasn’t _speaking like Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar_ , spoke like . . . Merrill Something-or-other-bloody-Hawke. _Like_ _Dalish elves_. And _that_ made absolutely no bloody, Maker-damned-sense at all. At least, not any sense Cullen could see or cipher.

 

 _Who are you, Kaaras?_ he wondered curious and slightly frustrated, but not worried or wary, even as Kaaras stopped just one shy step away, his breathing accelerated and his eyes wide and bright and _hungry_. Even as _love_ , fierce, obsessive, and ever-deepening, burned through him without consuming him. While, in fact, it built and _rebuilt_ Cullen with tempered, durable crucible-strength. _What secrets and mysteries comprise you? Why have you_ hid them _so carefully? Who were you, before you built the self who became Andraste’s Herald and the Inquisitor? Who are you besides the person_ I love most _and who_ loves me best?

 

But, then, all thoughts that weren’t the man settling in Cullen’s arms and against Cullen’s body were driven away by Kaaras’s beaming smile, shining eyes, and ardent, scorching-sweet kisses. By hushed-rushed whisper-hisses of: _Hullo, Cullen. I missed you. I love you. I_ want _you_.

 

But it was those kisses, more than any words or deeds or even _Cullen’s faith_ in Kaaras’s devoted heart that told Cullen what mattered most about his beloved: Whoever and whatever else Kaaras Adaar was, he was _Cullen’s_ , and ecstatic to be so. Free of burden and doubt in Cullen’s presence and arms— _possession and keeping_ —than he would have been elsewhere, save by the Maker’s right hand.

 

Cullen rumbled appreciatively, holding Kaaras tight-tight-tight, then grasping his arse with eager, owning hands. He bounced up on his toes, attempting to mitigate more of the height-difference so Kaaras wouldn’t have to do all of the work. Kaaras laughed into their kiss, wicked, wanton, and wonderful.

 

“So _bold_ , my brave and daring commander,” he purred, breathless and pleased. Then he happily submitted to Cullen’s answering kiss: a brief, but thorough, breath-stealing affair that left Cullen’s amorous Inquisitor shaking and whimpering in its wake. Which set Cullen’s heart soaring and made his prick stand straight-up faster than anyone at _The Blooming Rose_ —even Jethann—ever had. “What’s brought this on?” Kaaras’s breath was hot but soft on Cullen’s lips as he cupped Cullen’s balls and prick in his large, demonstrably talented hand. “Is there something _in particular_ you desire of me, Ser Rutherford?”

 

“I? Desire?” Cullen murmured, chuckling. Then he sucked Kaaras’s lower lip between his own for nibbling and licking. For his part, Kaaras seemed quite enthusiastic to be so nibbled and licked. “I desire only to prove myself a considerate suitor. Since we can’t _both_ be ten and a half feet tall, unfortunately. Not at this late date.”

 

“Mm, very true,” Kaaras agreed, walking and maneuvering them back until Cullen’s thighs hit the leading-edge of his desk. His right hand was still teasing and torturing Cullen through the unfair barrier of his bloody breeches. But the left hand was cupping Cullen’s face with care and delicacy, his thumb gently brushing Cullen’s cheek. Then across his lower lip. Kaaras moaned, soft and desperate, when Cullen scored his thumb with intent teeth. “But you r-realize, commander, the most obvious and easy solution to our height-difference is . . . _both of us_ being prone, yes?”

 

This time, Cullen’s breath hitched, and the soft, desperate moan was his own. Kaaras hummed, then smiled into the teasing-promising kiss he stole—then stole _some more_. Then he pressed their overheated bodies together, close and hard, his formerly prick-teasing hand squeezing Cullen’s arse with unequivocal encouragement. _Kaaras’s_ prick was ingot-hard against Cullen’s stomach.

 

“ _Cullennnnn_ ,” Kaaras sighed, both demanding and given over, and the most sensual, beautiful being in Creation. Cullen bit the tip of Kaaras’s thumb again and Kaaras all-but leapt into their kisses with redoubled intensity, trying to devour Cullen mouth-first. Cullen, meanwhile, continued creating bruises in the shape of his hands on Kaaras’s hips and arse. The pursuit was an endlessly rewarding one, as far as Cullen was concerned.

 

“Prone, did you say?” he finally managed between kisses and hasty sips of air. Though he instantly recalled, despite the soundness of the idea, that his own bed—in the loft directly above his office and accessible by a sturdy ladder—and quarters were sparsely utilitarian and lacking in even simple creature comforts. Not to mention unfortunately well-ventilated, and poorly insulated overall, due to a lack of tapestries and the giant hole in the ceiling.

 

Persistent, mid-spring chill and the broadcast of sound to nearby offices and rooms (and not so nearby), were hardly conducive to the expression of rampant, unrepentant passion.

 

And Kaaras’s quarters were _far_ too far-away for them to relocate with any decorum, propriety, or discretion. Anyone spotting them in their current state, together, and in a mad rush, would certainly have fodder for the rumors about them already flying around Skyhold—with particular intensity, since their recent display on the battlements.

 

“Yes, prone. Or,” Kaaras mused before Cullen could try to demur for both their reputations’ sakes, “perhaps we might try this with _one of us_ braced against this _very_ organized desk, and the other of us on their knees before him . . . see where that takes us. For starters.”

 

“S-Starters?”

 

“Mm. As well as any number of other height-mitigating positions and activities—I am _ever_ at your disposal, _kadan_.”

 

The unfamiliar word gave Cullen pause, during which he shivered and smiled for no reason he could identify. “ _Kadan_?”

 

Kaaras’s smile widened into the beatific beam Cullen couldn’t not lean back to see and bask in. His eyes seemed to flicker and flare in time with Cullen’s heartbeat.

 

“My heart,” he said simply, then colored fetchingly, dusky-magenta blooming in his cheeks. His gaze faltered for a moment only, before locking with Cullen’s again. “Among the Qunari, there aren’t romantic relationships—or there aren’t _supposed to be_ —but there _are_ friendships. Deep bonds between comrades. They . . . call each other _kadan_ in acknowledgement, honor, and celebration of that kindred spirit. That person who has become their entire heart. _You are_ my _entire_ heart, Cullen Rutherford. Every determined beat of it and every drop of its life-blood. And though there’s not a single word in any language that conveys _all_ that you are to me . . . _kadan_ is certainly the term that comes closest. You are my heart.”

 

Cullen could only gape, and witness the way his body reacted to Kaaras’s words—the all-over and all-throughout throb of blood shuttling through every bit of him, rendering some parts of him harder than diamonds, and other parts softer than a summer twilight in South Reach.

 

“Kaaras,” he breathed, then huffed and turned his own inadequate words into kisses. Kisses that saw him maneuver them around so that he was pushing Kaaras against the leading edge of the desk. He swallowed Kaaras’s genteelly overwhelmed groans and sighs, and tried to shove his warm, unusually motile hands down the back, then the front of Kaaras’s trousers.

 

(Cullen’s achy hands had been paining him far, far less and had not been chilly even once since that afternoon on the battlements. Where they’d rubbed-off against each other, before the Maker, Andraste, and whoever else might have been watching . . . or curious about Kaaras’s ridiculously flattering and arousing cries of abandon and release.)

 

“ _Kadan . . . Cullen_ ,” Kaaras gasped, raw and distressed, when Cullen ended their kisses suddenly and put cursèd inches between them. Trying on a cavalier smirk, Cullen held Kaaras’s anxious, near-heartbroken gaze, and sank slowly to his knees. They hit the carpeted stone of his office floor silently, though Cullen marked their arrival with a quiet, labored grunt, feeling—briefly, ruefully, and with wry resignation—every single one of his thirty-five years, and then some.

 

Especially because the look of worry and fear on Kaaras’s face—fear that Cullen would revert to his most recent, missish tendency to take their emotional _and_ physical relationship both two steps forward, then scurry three alarmed steps back—made him look far younger than his twenty-nine years. Made him look barely half Cullen’s age.

 

When Cullen pushed up Kaaras’s tunic with his left hand, then placed his right on the _marked_ distension that was Kaaras’s wool-covered prick, Kaaras’s face was rendered younger, still, by the shock and disbelief widening his already-wide eyes. And his kiss-swollen mouth.

 

“I’ve . . . not done any of this in quite some time,” Cullen admitted, blushing beet-red and glancing away from those wide, near-dazed eyes. He gave Kaaras’s prick a testing squeeze, and when it twitched upward noticeably in his hand, he smiled a little and started stroking slowly, his grip light due to the barrier of Kaaras’s dark trousers. “Not even on myself, really. But I’ve never been difficult to, er, please . . . I don’t know about _you_. Though, ah, it’s been longer than _quite some time_ since I, erm . . . well.”

 

So saying, Cullen leant in and mouthed the tip of Kaaras’s prick, and sped-up his strokes, while tightening them almost as much as the trousers would allow.

 

“Cullen—oh, _kadan_!” Kaaras wailed, his legs wobbling as he let Cullen’s desk take most of his weight. Smiling, Cullen began kissing his way along Kaaras’s prodigious length, pausing halfway down to glance up at Kaaras’s face. Still flushed and shocked and sweetly anticipatory.

 

Cullen’s own eagerness easily matched that unshielded expression, suddenly. Or . . . not so suddenly.

 

A moment later, Kaaras grabbed the hem of his tunic and yanked it up. Then off, tossing the midnight garment behind him, where it landed on Cullen’s chair, most likely.

 

Although Cullen could have stared at a shirtless Kaaras Adaar forever, plus six months—could have spent ten eternities tracing with worshipful eyes every scar, new and faded; every defined, proportionate muscle; every hair of the faint trail of ginger-gold leading from sternum to below the waistband of what had to be the least appreciated trousers in all of Creation. . . .

 

Huffing at his own silliness, Cullen licked his lips and lowered his gaze to Kaaras’s fly, which he then undid with hands that shook, but did not fumble. And when Kaaras was bared to the air—proud and perfect, flushed and formidable, girthy and leaking steadily—Cullen needed no moment to prepare or bolster himself. He needed neither reflection nor distraction.

 

There was only one thing in the world he needed, and with a certainty and intensity that didn’t surprise him at all.

 

But in the name of savoring the moments of his first taste of the only man he’d ever love, Cullen constrained himself to kissing and mouthing Kaaras’s prick, interspersing those ministrations with murmured praise and lingering licks.

 

“I half-expected you to taste sweet, here, as well,” he noted, smiling up at Kaaras and once again stroking a hot, hard, more-than-a-handful, while his right hand clamped on Kaaras’s hip. Kaaras’s eyes were squinched shut very tight, his teeth embedded in his bottom lip almost deep enough to draw blood.

 

The difficulties of exerting that famed and rather extraordinary self-control were implied by Kaaras’s expression. But the minute tremors beginning to take his tall, lean form, were the best compliment Cullen had ever received.

 

Giving the tip of Kaaras’s fully erect prick another savoring lick, Cullen chuckled, grasping Kaaras’s hips tight and hard, quelling their instinctive twitching, and proto-thrusts. “Not sweet at all, but absolutely addictive, nonetheless. I adore the taste of you.”

 

Kaaras’s eyes—lust-hazed and overwhelmed flew open in time to watch as Cullen’s lips closed around the tip of his prick.

 

No doubt, Kaaras’s helpless, unmistakably wanton shout—when Cullen started teasing and sucking—was heard by half of Skyhold. At least.

 

The shouts that followed as Cullen methodically worked his way down Kaaras’s prick, were probably heard by every wild band of bloody Avvar in the Frostbacks.

 

(After all the nonsense and complications springing from Stone Bear-Hold, the Hakkonites, and the myriad Avvar bands and villages sharing the Frostbacks with the Inquisition, Cullen was not overly fond of the locals. _Kaaras_ , on the other hand, was fascinated by them and their ways. Even fond, one might say. Fond of the Avaars—excepting the bloody Hakkonites, thankfully—fond, especially, of the Stone Bears and their Thane; fond of Stone Bear-Hold’s bloody-damned _Hold-Beast_ , Storvacker; and _very fond_ of his newly-found staff . . . a Sceptre of Razikale, recovered in _perfect_ condition while questing for that bloody-damned-bear.)

 

By the time Cullen had gone as far down as his current gag-reflex would allow, the sounds Kaaras was making—breathy gasps, ragged cries, and those wanton, unmistakable shouts—all of the Hinterlands, right up to the southernmost of the Bannorn, had probably heard and figured out what was going on in Cullen’s office. And likewise, probably the Dales, even up toward Halamshiral.

 

And yet . . . Cullen couldn’t have cared less. Or wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t been lost in Kaaras’s musky-salty taste and scent, the scorching-silk of his skin, and the perfect, necessary _weight of Kaaras on his tongue_ , as well as the space he commandeered in Cullen’s mouth and throat and bloody _being_.

 

The space Cullen willingly, happily ceded to Kaaras, in perpetuity.

 

“C-Cullen, I—I—” Kaaras began stammering, clearly doing his best to control his hips, despite the tiny, rocking thrusts that nearly drove his prick further down than Cullen’s throat could handle. So, Cullen pushed Kaaras back against the desk firmly, pointedly, clenching bruising-tight on his slim hips: to keep them still and keep the backs of Kaaras’s lean thighs flush against the desk.

 

“It’s alright, love,” Cullen promised on the wet, heated head of Kaaras’s prick and down the deeply flushed shaft, laving every spot he kissed. And: “I have you, Kaaras. Let me do this for you . . . let me _take care of you_. You’re _beautiful_ like this and I _love_ you. Let me love you. . . .”

 

Kaaras moaned, but managed to regain some of his control, letting Cullen restrict his movements entirely, while once more sucking, then sliding on and almost completely off Kaaras’s prick. Over and over, and with focus and dedication.

 

It wasn’t long before Kaaras was incoherent, but for Cullen’s name, and the words _yes!_ and _kadan!_

 

Knowing Kaaras was very close to the edge, Cullen took him as deep as he could, one final time, then hummed while swallowing repeatedly.

 

Kaaras didn’t even shout . . . he simply inhaled, quick and sudden, then let out a slow exhale, with a rather affecting, gasping sigh—meek, and, also helpless—clinging to its back.

 

Cullen, however, didn’t get to hear much more than its sweet inception, busy as he was suppressing Kaaras’s instinctive thrusts once more—which came harder and faster than before, of course—and swallowing Kaaras’s release . . . as much as he could and as best as he could.

 

Suffice it to say, even with his not inconsiderable efforts, Cullen’s tunic wound up partially soaked and stained with come that tasted of salt, iron, and earth. As if Kaaras’s very essence was the foundations of Thedas: not at all _sweet_ , but bitter, dark, grounded, and powerful.

 

When a need to breathe caught-up with him, he sat back decisively, sliding off Kaaras’s still two-thirds hard prick and sitting on his heels. Still grasping Kaaras’s right hip, he wiped his face on his left sleeve and gasped in air. It came back out as surprised, but pleased chuckles when he realized he hadn’t started choking or gagging, despite his long abstention from such activity.

 

Kaaras, panting and groaning, had apparently been bracing most of his weight on his hands, because when the left one fell away from Cullen’s desk, Kaaras’s knees buckled. He hit the floor with a grunt not unlike Cullen’s, slumping forward more than a little, then practically whimpering as Cullen caught him.

 

And there he rested, held up and held tight in Cullen’s arms, trembling and gasping, and too dazed to do much reciprocal holding, yet. His head rested heavily on top of Cullen’s, and Cullen pressed praise and kisses to Kaaras’s collarbone.

 

“ _Kadan . . . oh, kadan . . ._ I love you. . . .” Kaaras kept hitching and half-sobbing, and finally clutched Cullen tight to him. Cullen, his face now tucked against Kaaras’s throat, between jaw and collarbone, could only breathe and grin—the latter more than the former. But for once, it wasn’t alarming . . . that inability to draw an adequate breath.

 

He merely existed in Kaaras’s arms and esteem and love, subject to a rain of kisses on his hair, then his face, then his lips. Kaaras shamelessly sought out the salt-iron-earth taste of himself in Cullen’s mouth and on his tongue, licking and sucking, respectively, as he explored and claimed what was eternally _his_.

 

“Have . . . have you come, yet, Cullen?” he asked between those drowning-deep kisses, his fingers worrying at Cullen’s fly, then at the agony-stiff erection poking out of it, which Cullen had almost forgotten. But Kaaras’s hand, fervent and fearless, supplicant and despot, was an excellent reminder.

 

“Erm. No. N-Not yet.” Cullen’s voice was hoarse, and all tone practically nonexistent. He also noted that his throat was achingly sore, and his jaw protested every motion it was forced to make.

 

At this realization, Cullen gave it _even more_ motion to disapprove of, by grinning: huge and uncontrolled. Blissed-out.

 

“Good,” Kaaras said, firm and final, leaning back in Cullen’s arms, his face still flushed and his eyes brighter than a night full of stars. Those eyes were also possessive, determined, and _ravenous_. “ _Brilliant_. Because we’re going up to your quarters and _you’re_ going to make _another_ of my dearest dreams come true, Commander Cullen.”

 

Cullen blinked, his brows lifting in question, though he immediately nodded his assent. He’d never invited Kaaras up to the economical loft above his office—which served as a sanctuary, as well as sleeping-quarters—for many reasons, not just the paucity of its comforts and the exposure to seasonal elements.

 

But, barely one month ago, Cullen’s reasons had become excuses, only. With the advent of mutual love-confessions and promises of a shared future.

 

Now . . . there were _no_ reasons and no adequate excuses to not bare his loft—and every other part of himself—to Kaaras.

 

“I-If you wish, love,” he yielded, all dazed gravity and nagging anxiety. Kaaras’s eyes flashed, and his smirk was terribly wicked.

 

“Are we only taking _my_ wishes into account, then, _kadan_? I must say, I’ve more than enough to keep us both occupied for . . . _quite some time_.”

 

Kaaras’s tone was warm and playful, but at this point in their friendship, never mind the _more_ they’d begun exploring recently, Cullen could tell when Kaaras’s playful side was more covering up uncertainty and insecurity—could pick out the tells, just as he could for Kaaras’s mostly-hidden, Dalish-like accent.

 

There was a soft solemnity to Kaaras’s gaze that accompanied his earnest vulnerability, which never faltered, only grew increasingly hopeful . . . or doubtful.

 

Cullen smiled as reassuringly as he was able, letting his stare make many repeat-passes of Kaaras’s body, admiring broad shoulders and upper chest, and the defined taper of Kaaras’s torso. The ginger-gold trail leading to Kaaras’s once again fully hard prick. . . .

 

. . . the sharp, somehow poignant points of Kaaras’s hips. They drew Cullen’s eyes, made his fingertips itch, and his lips tremble with kisses yet to be pressed to those intriguing hints of bone, padded with long, lean muscle. . . .

 

They made his mouth _water_ in anticipation, at the faint mix of spicy-sweet that lingered on Kaaras’s skin, and of which Cullen knew his tongue would _never_ tire. Even after a long, blessed lifetime spent sampling it.

 

“The list of desires and needs I wish to explore with you—with _only you_ —is . . . exhaustive in its length and scope, I assure you, love. But considering that I never dared hope to find myself here, _exactly here_ , with you in my arms and the taste of you lingering on my tongue, I find that waiting for my list to happen takes _not even patience_. I am . . . ecstatic and eager to explore _your_ list, whenever. Every item on it, repeatedly, for as long as you wish. So long as I . . . so long as I get to _be with you_ , Kaaras.”

 

Kaaras was gaping a little, his eyes gone wide and round again. For a few seconds, his plush-pretty lips worked to form words, though no sounds came out. Finally, he huffed, seeming flabbergasted for a few seconds, then squared his shoulders and smirked. But it was clear, from the flush in his cheeks that the smirk really wanted to be a big, silly grin.

 

“Well,” he finally managed, clearing his throat. His lips twitched and trembled, as if holding back some barely-controlled sound of elation. “Just so we’re clear beyond misunderstandings, commander . . . in and for the immediate future, I intend to grip your headboard for dear life and mercy—while you bugger me blind and insensate. _After_ I first spend the better part of an hour bouncing on your cock like a man gone mad, of course.”

 

If not for Kaaras’s sudden, owning-quelling grip of Cullen’s prick, Kaaras’s declaration would’ve ended the assignation before it’d started. As it was, it blew apart whatever remained of Cullen’s focus and logic. “I . . . I—my, er, bed doesn’t have a terribly sound headboard. It’s ancient and as creaky as the bloody frame. I, er, never got around to requisitioning a new one of either,” he confessed in a breathless and vaguely ashamed mumble. But Kaaras’s grin only widened.

 

“Hmm, that’s the stuff of tragedies. I suppose if there’s nothing sturdy for me to hold onto, _you’ll_ have to hold me down, again, like you did just now. Pin me to your bed bodily and _keep me that way_. Until my shouts make this castle long for the _relative silence_ of my previous cries.” Kaaras’s smirk twitched, acquiring edges and hunger. His eyes seemed to burn as hot as demon-fire. “Also: you’re _never_ more irresistible than when you completely miss the point of my subtle attempts at seducing and besmirching you.”

 

“Ah . . . I’m no innocent, Kaaras. And no naïf, all evidence to the contrary,” Cullen said, wry and a bit rueful, again, though his cheeks were burning. Then he lost wryness and rue to Kaaras’s slow, hard stroke of his prick—almost lost his slowly rallying self-control to what would have been a sudden lightning-strike of a release.

 

Kaaras’s agile-quick, punishing-aggressive grip of Cullen’s balls stopped _that_ in its track, quite neatly.

 

“ _No_ ,” Kaaras informed Cullen, soft and steely, hot and cold in all the best ways. His eyes—when Cullen could open his own, once more—were both adamant and molten. “ _I_ decide when, where, and how you come, commander. As well as _if_ you come.” He leaned in to sip tortuous-teasing kisses from Cullen’s parted lips, stealing breath and groans equally. “ _You_ are going to _take me to bed_ , Cullen Rutherford. _At last_. I’m going to work through some of that list I’ve got, then _you’re going to fuck me_ . . . until I’ve lost my voice from shouting your name for all of Skyhold to hear and envy me. And when we’ve recovered, you’re going to make love to me like we’ve both been waiting our entire lives for nothing else. After _that_ . . . sleep. Lots of sleep.”

 

That near-cruel grip on Cullen’s balls eased and grew exponentially warmer, somehow. Though, Kaaras’s touch seemed to spark random shocks and thrills through Cullen: from the tip of his prick, down to and through his balls, along the sensitive skin leading to his arsehole, and, finally, inward . . . to a place not even Jethann had touched so electrifyingly.

 

“ _Kaaras_ ,” Cullen groaned, loud and long and—when propriety colored the memory of this moment in the relatively near future—mortifying. He all-but went limp in Kaaras’s embrace, only to yelp when Kaaras stood suddenly, easily, while swinging Cullen up into an over-the-shoulder carry. “ _KAARAS_! What in the Maker’s _name_? Put me _down_!”

 

“I’m afraid not, _kadan_. I’m thinking of all our lovely, but frustrating near-misses, and suddenly reconsidering all that fancy foreplay and list-folderol,” Kaaras announced absently, striding toward the ladder to Cullen’s loft.  One of his large, careful hands was splayed on Cullen’s arse, the other on Cullen’s left thigh. From his dizzying vantage-point of slung-over-his-lover’s-shoulder, Cullen’s view was of Kaaras’s gorgeously firm arse . . . for which Cullen had _very_ specific plans and, _for which,_ _the list_ had its own itemized section _full_ of activities to check-off at least once. “I think I’ll just toss you on your bed, impale myself on your cock, then ride you until I lose consciousness. Or until I can’t get you hard anymore . . . yes, that’s an imminently workable plan. I feel quite optimistic about its efficacy.”

 

“ _Maker_ , Kaaras! You’re—you’re bloody _mad!”_ Nearly seasick with accelerating vertigo and the resulting hint of nausea—and driven almost to tears from the rough-hard torture of his hyper-sensitized prick being ground against Kaaras’s solid shoulder—Cullen nevertheless grinned and laughed as Kaaras ascended the ladder to the loft. Thankfully, Cullen’s engrained pragmatism was such that, even aroused and dazed to near-uselessness, he remembered to tuck his head and torso close to Kaaras’s until they’d cleared the loft entry-hatch.

 

Even to someone like Cullen—as romantic as a worn and faded old sock—a cracked skull sounded like a _terrible_ way to inaugurate their first time together.

 

But mostly, he was utterly heartened that Kaaras’s finalized shortlist of shared activities for them to try so far bore remarkable and _thrilling_ resemblance to his own. Though, Cullen already suspected the best and most thrilling times would be when their lists diverged. When they managed to surprise each other . . . to discover new and wonderful ways to be together.

 

At least, that would be the case when the surprise _wasn’t_ being hoisted and hauled off to one’s own quarters like an abducted Avvar maiden about to be—willingly—ravished by an overeager suitor!

 

 

**TBC in Part 2**

**Author's Note:**

>  **Thanks :**  
>   
> To the Writer’s Block. To anyone giving this a read (and hopefully a comment and/or kudo :-).  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Resources & References for this fic:**  
>   
>   
> [Dragon Age Wiki](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Dragon_Age_Wiki)  
>   
> [Horse lyrics](https://genius.com/Live-band-horse-lyrics)  
>   
> [White Flag lyrics](https://genius.com/Dido-white-flag-lyrics)  
>   
> [Here With Me lyrics](https://genius.com/Dido-here-with-me-lyrics)  
>   
> [Skyhold Reference - Cullen's Bedroom and Office](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCqeQduLbEk)  
>   
> [Skyhold Sleeping Arrangements](https://the-emerald-halla.tumblr.com/post/151798754707/skyhold-sleeping-arrangements)  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Powered by :**  
>   
>   
> Live: [Live -Throwing Copper – Horse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=stQ1l9i8GTY)  
>   
> Dido: [Dido - White Flag (Official Music Video)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-fWDrZSiZs)  
>   
> Dido: [Dido - Here with Me (Official Video)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSu5nAQ7uZw)  
>   
>   
>   
>   
> [TUMBLES with the bug](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)! And [PILLOWFORTS with the bug, too](https://www.pillowfort.io/beetle-comma-the)!


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